Ramblings of a Ghostly Mind
by Jenny-Beth
Summary: Voldemort has some time on his hands to talk about his reflections on his life. Death does that. Give you time, I mean.


**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned Voldemort! Half of me wanted him to win that Final Battle!

**Author's Note: **Yet another oneshot that I am being forced to post by my beta. The threats of bodily harm!

_**Ramblings of a Ghostly Mind**_

There are very few things a man knows for sure. All through life, a man may think he knows everything and that there is nothing that he has not seen. Then he dies.

Death is a whole new experience. There is no way to anticipate what happens after you die. Sure, different religions speculate, but you will never know until you are dead. In the end, you just have to take a deep breath and hope that everything works out in your favour. If not, you pay for your sins for the rest of eternity. That is what I am doing now.

I have no idea how long I have been dead. I only know that the sun is in the sky and the trees are dead and brown. I know that he is alive and being ridiculously successful. This does not surprise me. He is the Boy-Who-Lived, after all.

While he lives, I am forced to recall everything I ever did and reflect on everyone I ever knew, be it for good or for evil. I almost wish that I had done less of the evil, for it is to blame for the circumstances in which I find myself.

Among the things I do not regret are my Horcruxes. If this semi-transparent shape is my image for all time, death is everything that I had thought. It is to be avoided. Not out of fear; no, never out of fear. It must be avoided for the sake of staying clear of the enigma that is death. Even dead, I do not begin to understand it.

One of the things I do regret is my choice of Horcruxes. If, in your quest for immortality, you decide to create Horcruxes, do not make them out of anything with a personal significance. Choose something with very little importance to yourself, but of value to others, so that you will be assured that it will not be destroyed. Do not choose anything too.. obvious.

Not to sound like a self-pitying child, but no one ever did try to understand me. Not truly. Perhaps that is why I did all of the things that I did. Dumbledore thought he understood. He researched me; knew more about me than anyone else, but he never understood.

Merlin knows, I barely understand myself. This is one of those things that I thought I knew everything about until I died. Now I see a whole new side of myself. I have actually begun to understand Dumbledore! I think you know that I would sooner have destroyed a couple of my own Horcruxes before admitting that when I was alive.

Now, I am only beginning to understand him. In all of his years of thinking and reflecting about me, he did not understand. All I can do is admit that it is unlikely that I will ever understand everything about him.

I wonder if death helped the old man (I suppose a dead person does not age, upon further reflection) understand that he never understood me. I wonder if Potter will ever wonder whether he really knew everything about me.

I will most likely never fully empathise with Potter. His constant need to jump in the way and save others has always been something that baffled me. Perhaps it is the Gryffindor in him, and because ofmy Slytherin ancestry that leaves me confused. After all, he is about bravery while I am about self preservation. All those in the Slytherin house are.

I remember a girl with red hair, freckles, and hazel eyes. She looked like a Weasley. I heard some people walking through my woods, saying that Potter had married a Weasley. If so, it is an odd twist of the Oedipus complex, is it not? His mother also had red hair and freckles. He never knew her. Perhaps he wants to be mothered by his wife. If so, he has the famous Weasley temper to contend with.

But enough about that; back on topic. What else have I learned since I died?

I have learned that I never hated my father because he was a Muggle. I was resentful because I was in an orphanage whilst he was still alive. Just because my father conceived me while he was under a love potion, I was ignored. It was not my fault, but I was punished. Ah, there I go, sounding like a snot-nosed little brat again.

Like my opinion of Horcruxes, my opinion of my mother remains unchanged. She was an heir of Slytherin and a Parselmouth. She could have done great things. Instead, she drugged a Muggle and had his baby. She died in childbirth, but if she had lived, I would have killed her myself. She could have been my only surviving relation and loved me dearly and I would have wanted her dead for shaming Slytherin and his decedents. A Muggle indeed.

I have always regretted killing my grandparents. Had my father not been a deadbeat (a wealthy man who insisted on living with his parents when he was well into his thirties), they might have lived much longer. As it was, they witnessed me killing the pathetic excuse of a man. They had to be disposed of. I wonder, sometimes, if they even knew I was alive before that night. They knew who I was before they died.

Wondering about them brings me back to Potter. He never knew his parents and was also brought up by Muggles who apparently treated him poorly. I wonder what made him turn out so differently. I heard from Snape once that Potter was pointing out all of the similarities between he and I. I scoffed, not believing that it could be possible. Now that I have more time to reflect (death does that to you, or at least mine does), I realise that he was right. It kills me to admit it even now.

That's right. The Dark Lord Voldemort just made a joke.

I do that from time to time, you know. Sometimes it fools people into thinking that you are far more harmless than you are. When you suddenly swoop down on them in a fit of fury, they are thrown off balance and you have the upper hand. That's a word of advice for all you future Dark Lords.

Anyway, you look as though you have places to be, so I shall let you go. I wish I could force you to stay but.. Fine. Go.


End file.
